Valuable Lessons
by TantalumCobolt
Summary: When Alex is sent to stay with the Avengers everyone learns some valuable lessons. Jones and Fury keep secrets, the Avengers argue, Alex makes a new friend and someone who is supposed to be dead drops by for a visit. It really is a small world.


**Word Count: 1,450**

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'Alex, oh Alex, I'm so sorry.' I'm shocked that Mrs Jones actually does sound sorry and that the words aren't as hollow and meaningless as they usually would be.

'What the hell do you want Jones?' I snap, annoyed at the lack of progress that has been made since I entered the office five minutes ago. 'Is it a mission? 'Cause if it is you can stop with the useless apologies and tell me what I have to do, then I can reluctantly agree and get the hell out of here.'

I'm amazed for the second time that day when a guilty look flashes across her usually emotionless features. 'No, Alex, we didn'tcall you in here for a mission,' she pauses, clearly hesitating over her next words. 'We've received some... news that we thought you'd want to hear. No, that's not quite right. News that you deserved to hear.'

I'm wary now. In the few years that I've known her she has never hesitated over the right choice of words, never apologised, never looked guilty and never sounded sorry. I stay silent, unsure what to expect. It's definitely not her next words.

'Ben is dead.'

Ben is dead?

Time seems to freeze and I feel my whole body go completely numb. Somewhere in the back of my mind I notice that Jones is still speaking, but I can't hear anything. Then, as quickly as my world had stopped, it started again. Just in time to hear the last word's of Jones' monologue.

'-couldn't do anything to save him.'

I shake my head in disbelief. 'No,' I protest. 'You're lying! Ben isn't dead, he can't be dead.'

Mrs Jones gives a sad, sympathetic smile that looks nothing but wrong on her face. 'I'm truly sorry, but Ben Daniels is dead.'

I'm still shaking my head. It's not true, it can't be true. I'd know if Ben was dead, wouldn't I? I stubbornly ignore the little voice in the back of my head that whispers; you do know, she just told you.

My voice is thick with confusion as I speak my next words. 'I'm sorry Mrs Jones, but you're wrong. Ben can't be dead. Unless-' Ibreak off as understanding dawns and my eyes meet Jones'. 'Unless you killed him.'

Something in my snaps at that. I spring up from the chair I was seated in and launch myself across the desk at her. It's her fault. There is no doubt in my heart. It's her fault. And as suddenly as that thought came the next one hits me and the force of the words almost knocks the breath from my lungs.

She killed Ben.

I want to kill her. I want her to suffer for all the pain she's caused me. I want her to pay for everything she's every done to me, because in the end it's always the fault of MI6. The voice in the back of my head speaks up again, sounding suspiciously like Ian; And what do you do when there's a problem Alex? You eliminate it. Eliminate the problem. Yes, that's what I have to do.

Suddenly, the office door slams open and two figures dressed in black burst in. People are shouting at me but I can't make out the words over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I try to read their lips, but it's too hard to focus and my eyes keep wandering to the guns in their hands.

Wait- guns? Why are they pointing guns at me? What's happening? I turn my head away from the two agents and tried to concentrate on Mrs Jones instead. She'd give me answers, wouldn't she? But she doesn't say anything, although I'm sure the questions are clear in my eyes, and I can't seem to find the energy to form the words necessary to ask her what I want to know. In fact, now that I think about it, I don't have the energy to do anything, not even hold the gun in my hand.

I blink, startled. A quick glance down confirms that the heavy weight in my hand is in fact a gun, and I'm pointing it at Mrs Jones' heart. This only confuses me more. Why am I pointing a gun at Mrs Jones? I blink again, and the action seems to take more effort than it usually should. Oh yeah, I was going to kill her. A slightly giddy grin appears on my face and it I wonder why the thought of killing Mrs Jones is so funny. Then I realise that it's not funny at all. Nothing about the situation is funny, butmy foggy brain cannot comprehend why I shouldn't be amused.

Why can't I think clearly?

I should be alarmed by now, but I can't find it in myself to care. So I just stand in the middle of the room for what seems to be a very long time, a gun dangling carelessly from my hand and an idiot grin on my face. After a while things seem to get hazy and I can see less and less. I want to turn my head and find out what is going on but my muscles refuse to obey me. I should be worried about this, I know I should, but my head is heavy so I decide not to think about it instead.

Slowly I sink to my knees, letting my usually straight posture collapse so that I'm half-leaning against something hard. The part of my brain that still works informs me that it's a desk.

I'm so tired.

My eyelids are heavy and my vision fuzzy. The light in the room seems to dim and brighten at random intervals and it's beginning to make my head hurt. In search of desperate reprieve from the light I let my eyes close. Immediately I snap them open again. The tiny part of my brain that is still functioning as it should be lets me know that falling asleep would be a very bad idea.

But I'm so tired.

Keeping my eyes open is a struggle and I feel as though I'm fighting a battle that I never had a chance of winning. When they slide shut for the what seems to be the hundredth time in no more than a minute I give up. Deciding it's no use fighting my own body I relax slightly and, ignoring the voice in my head screaming for me to wake up, I allow my self to be lulled towards the darkness.

With one final conscious thought I wonder why I never liked the darkness. Sure, it always brought nightmares and bad memories, but this darkness seems nice. The more of the welcoming darkness I encounter the less I become aware of everything that feels so wrong with my body in that moment. For an instant my mind is clear and my body no longer feels heavy. I feel as though I am floating on soft, endless clouds and a wave of calmness washes over me.

Then there is nothing.

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Mrs Jones blankly watched guards drag the lifeless form of Alex away, no traces of her inner turmoil showed on her face. She was not proud of what she had just done, but it had been necessary. A polite cough pulled her attention to the agent who lingered in the doorway.

'Mrs Jones? Should I...' He gestured vaguely in the direction Alex had been taken.

Mrs Jones hesitated a moment before nodding her head. 'Just make sure you aren't there when he awakens. I will be along shortly.'

The agent nodded, although he seemed reluctant to heed her orders. Then he stepped back into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him, and then he disappeared down the hallway. Left alone in her office Mrs Jones sat down again behind her desk. She placed her hand on a small pad and waited patiently for the sensors to accept her palm-print. When it flashed green she removed her hand and pulled open the draw hidden beneath the desk. From inside she pulled out a small business card, blank save for a phone number in black typed font. Mrs Jones picked up the phone and dialled the numbers, her fingers drumming absentmindedly on the hard wood of her desk as she waited for the person on the other end to answer. When they did a small smile graced the usually blank face.

'Director Fury,' she greeted. 'Our agent has just been submitted to the test.'

A question from the other end of the line made Mrs Jones pause before she continued, giving her answer with a slight head shake. 'He failed.'

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